


The Flower in the Meadow

by Hotalando



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Rivalry, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-14 09:02:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotalando/pseuds/Hotalando
Summary: Although not necessarily the life Robin has had in mind but pleasant enough to get by and smile. An unadventurous life, the way she wanted it after all that has happened. The quiet, friendly and beautiful neighbourhood is the home to her that brings happiness and success. Until the old storage depot across her flower shop gets a new owner.





	1. un

## 1

A late spring day sets its sun over Meadow Lane. Golden rays highlight the buildings one last time for today, like spotlights before the curtain call. Due to its unique position towards the sun, Meadow Lane is gifted with the most beautiful of sunsets every spring. Each year photographers and artists from all over the world come together and watch the miraculous show—many paintings and stories have been created interpreting the phenomenon. 

Meadow Lane isn’t a long street to begin with. It goes from the side of the main street to the next corner, not even turning beyond it. Mostly hidden from passersby, it became a secret paradise for the locals and visitors. Since there isn’t much to do in Meadow Lane—only five commercial shops fill in the spaces between flats and apartments, and their offerings are not created to please anyone’s needs and taste. Whoever finds themselves in this street knows what they are here for. 

Meadow Lane isn’t a wide street. And the concreted floor from the main street keeps most people away from the sight of the aged plastered road. It is the atmosphere, the aesthetic of the complete appearance of Meadow Lane that makes everyone protect it from sobered up changes. There isn’t much in Meadow Lane to maintain this visual—the empty apartments towards the corner, the old storage depot on the fallow grounds taking up two third of the street’s Southern side. They all lower the visual quality of the street to the point at which town council and citizens fight over the street’s existence. 

Then what is it—despite the sunset and the plastered road—that makes Meadow Lane so precious to the locals? 

Let us find out. 

On the street’s Northern side, across the fallow ground with the empty storage depot, resides the main attraction. In one of the larger shops a bistro you can find—not as big as the diners and restaurants in the most frequented quarter of the town but enough to offer cosiness and privacy altogether alongside the European-inspired dishes. Its interior and exterior both accommodated to the menu by French furniture and decorations, from basic elements to detail. The owners insist on the authenticity of their bistro, not only for the customer but to remind themselves and the locals of their heritage. Rumour has it, they weren’t very fond of life abroad and forcefully kept their French lifestyles up—but who would judge them for coping with their homesickness? The reasons for their departure from France are too dark and complex to taint our little story with. 

Neighbour to little France is another commercial shop inhabited by a woman of thirty years and her dozens of flowers and plants. Her florist’s shop is not even half the size of the bistro but enough for her and her assortment. High quality fresh flowers aren’t as common around this area as she originally thought when immigrating from Europe—and so she has to work with the only flower farmer in the area. Admitting to the mainstream flower market is no option, so she lives from day to day, never with a guarantee for profit. 

On most days a few random customers would step out of their usual routine and enter her shop—sometimes buying a bouquet out of sheer embarrassing sympathy for having confused her etablissement for whatever else. There _are_ regulars who visit her shop every month or other week for a commissioned bouquet and their trust in her expertise is sometimes the only reason for the thirty-year-old woman to keep the shop running. 

People of Meadow Lane are supportive of another and so nobody would allow the florist’s shop to close. The owners of the bistro—being quite wealthy from all the patrons and tourists—bought the building next to their own and so demanded little rent from the florist for her shop and her apartment atop of it. In exchange for the low price, their patrons can sit outside the beautifully, lush decorated exterior and front of the shop and enjoy their dish or a special scented tea. 

The beautifully and lush decorated front of the shop is both a blessing and a curse. In order to understand what that means one ought to picture the following: A big windowed shop with black painted walls and golden accents, inscriptions and signs in delicate art nouveau manner and ranks of leafy plants hanging from above the windows. Chains of little flower bouquets framed the little top window of the door, pots of balanced arrangements stand in between each set of table and chairs. After sunset the whole sight would shine from small hidden lampions—luring in patrons, pseudo-customers and passersby. 

As much as people love to glimpse at the front of the shop—and sometimes there would be crowds of people—they get sated by its look and blinded by it that none of them ever enters the shop or acknowledge it and its offerings behind the beautiful and lush facade. So many photographers come to Meadow Lane in late Spring to capture the sun lowering its golden rays onto the leaves and petals and the ornaments on the walls—barely any of them aware of the woman behind it, arranging bouquet after bouquet that never leave her intact. 

Similarities from her economic success to her personal life are sadly no secret to Meadow Lane either. Her apartment as empty as her shop, no man or child to accompany her and people start talking every now and then, will she ever find someone? will no one ever love her? poor madam, no one wants her bouquets and no one wants her love—they hush their concerns and sympathy without having ever stepped a foot into her shop. 

With her good ears and her kind heart, she stays strong behind the counter and loses herself in the world she arranges in her hands—another bouquet to tell her story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although this is my entry for FrobinMonth2018 over on tumblr, it's an idea that's been haunting me for years now and it's originally planned to be some sort of picture book like doujinshi but for now it's better off as a fanfic. I hope you enjoy reading it!


	2. deux

## 2

It’s a fresh and bright last spring morning and Meadow Lane rises to life. Above the shops, their owners prepare for another day of labour and contributing to society. Motivation among all Meadow Laners is a slow-riser and so it takes a few more convincing rays of the rising sun until everyone settles into their shops. 

When it’s time for her, the florist descends the stairs to her shop and opens the front door. Until lunch there won’t be many potential customers for the bistro next door only opens at 11am but there are heavy flower pots demanding to be carried onto the pavement. On other days, the junior owner of the bistro would help but he is outside of town until midday, and the senior owner too old to help with the heavy baggage. She knows that there aren’t any customers to see the flower pots for another three hours—and though, who knows? 

Sometimes—and for Meadow Lane quite often—good things come to the patient, so when she tries to push one of the pots onto a carrier, a voice forces her to stop. “Oh—Robin, wait, I’ll help you!”

Surprised by the encounter, the florist called Robin barely has time to straighten up before calloused but feminine hands wrap around the bottom of the pot and the weight is halved instantly. Together and without much trouble, they carry the flower arrangement outside the shop to its designated spot. Another and a third and fourth and even a fifth pot follow and once the front of the shop is decorated as beautifully and lush as people know it, the two women sit down at one of the tables. 

Robin, now very much happier than before, smiles at the rare visitor—the pale lavender hair always a welcomed change to the florist’s eyes. “Thank you for the help, Nojiko. Normally, Sanji would help me but he left for the market before sunrise.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to carrying heavy boxes,” Nojiko responded with a peach-coloured smile. “I was going to see you anyway. You know, our mother’s birthday is coming close and we need some nice arrangement to put on her grave. Could you do that for us? No fixed budget, the harvest was good last year so we could save up a lot. We usually just take the flowers from our own beds and make something ourselves but Nami wants something pretty this time—so I had to think of you.”

“I feel honoured,” Robin agrees to the offer, “I can be done by the end of the week—or when is it best for you?”

“Next Friday—is that okay? I wanted to get in touch with you earlier but work got busy and since I’m already out on delivery in town…” 

“That’s fine, I can have it done by Thursday or Friday morning, whenever you want to pick it up,” Robin reassures her, delight blooming inside her so powerfully. 

“Perfect—I’m going to pick it up Friday morning,” Nojiko confirms the deal and feels the excitement floating over to her. For once, their mother’s grave would have a proper bouquet on top. 

Behind them, a man carrying a newspaper under his arm and both hands in his trousers approaches the nearest table and settles down. He’s of an older age than Robin and Nojiko—a local enjoying his retirement in Meadow Lane every morning. Not meaning to interrupt, he simply waves at the florist with his common warm smile that despite his impressive long silver beard is hard to miss. 

“The Baratie is open already?” Nojiko frowns and directs her question towards Robin who hesitates to get up from her seat. 

“It’s not. He’s a customer of mine. Every other week he buys a bouquet and every morning he drinks a coffee and reads the newspaper,” Robin explains, “Zeff doesn’t even want to serve him this early so I make coffee for him every morning—and he pays me.”

“But the table and chairs belong to the bistro, right? This sounds a little like pity,” Nojiko notices with a dark expression on her face. What the locals are saying about Robin even reaches their plantage far outside of town. Their assumptions and rumours has always bothered her, none of them knows the florist enough to snap to conclusions. Yet, they dare to call themselves supportive of her by buying a flower once a year—out of pity.

Robin shakes her head calmly and rises up to serve her patron, “It’s not like that. He has no place for plants and no skill in gardening, he says, and so he comes here every morning to appreciate what he can’t have and pays me for it. You can say it’s a very expensive coffee.”


	3. trois

## 3

Whenever the sun reaches its highest point, it is time for Meadow Lane to feed its citizens and patrons. Exquisite dishes made from the most delicious of seasonal ingredients from around town fill the menus of the bistros of the local area—yet there is no other place around Meadow Lane able to compete with the high quality of the Baratie. 

It was almost a decade ago when Zeff de Bruin immigrated from Europe with his son, Sanji. Their passion for culinary and personal freedom luring them into the New World, far away from eyes and minds and mouths that know nothing of the things they communicate about. And so they settled into this little fancy town in the Middle East of the USA where French roots are residents’ treasure. No one has ever questioned the father and son’s true reasons for their immigration nor if they were truly French men—they simply assumed and so neither de Bruin senior or junior have ever bothered to reveal their West Flanders origin. 

At meal times, nobody cares about the cooks’ home country but for the quality of their food. Hence crowds of hungry citizens from around Meadow Lane pool into the medium-sized bistro, busying the cooks, bartenders and pavements. During these periods, Meadow Lane is the most vivid place in town—vibrant from all the different kinds of people and feelings it shines almost brighter than the Sun itself.

If only one of those rays of light would miss its usual destination for once and send its warm shine through the windows of the florist’s shop—maybe for once, the woman inside wouldn’t feel as isolated from life surrounding her. While only what is left of light fills her shop, Robin sits on her spot and engulfs her thoughts in creativity. 

She tends to feel alone at lunch but not lonely. After Nojiko’s departure, she had some nice chat with her only patron and his perspective of life always brightens up her own. Now with a commission to be done, she has her ideas and plants to spend time with in order to create an exceptional floral arrangement. All of her works contain the most of quality she can produce, but Nojiko’s request is the dearest to her and so she is determined to give more than her most. 

Despite the crowded pavement in front of her shop—as spirited and loud as ever—Robin is able to concentrate on the sketches on her desk. The patrons of the Baratie might enjoy her arrangements lining up outside, but none of them notices the shop behind them. A common situation for Robin, to only have a few people look behind the large glass windows for her. And the isolation makes it easier to work on a grave arrangement.

Her concentration is high today, scribbles and drawings scatter over the desk, her ideas run wild and her body feels detached from reality. Again, she is losing herself inside her mind, all of her knowledge of flowers and their historical and modern meanings mingling with possibilities of new designs. Most important is the personal association she has to include in the bouquet—although her own kind of faith doesn’t involve an afterlife, she respects the wishes and beliefs of her commissioners and plans to arrange a message for the deceased from her loved ones.

But her thoughts begin to stumble, to tumble when not her sketch board but a plate of food arrangement is intruding her vision. Robin regains her posture very quickly—not a stranger to sudden changes in her environment, her reflexes are extraordinary—and gazes up into the rough-patterned face of the younger man from nextdoor. 

A smile is painted on his features, hard outlines drawn by the stressful work. “I apology for my absence this morning.”

“You’re forgiven—someone has to buy ingredients for the hungry lot, I suppose,” Robin smiles back genuinely and clears the desk for her meal. “Nojiko helped me out so it was completely fine.”

Sanji de Bruin sighs roughly, “Two ladies alone with heavy flower pots—I don’t know if _I_ can forgive myself.”

Aware of the burden the young adult carries around, Robin’s smile dresses itself with concern. She eyes him intensely, how worn down his suit is from the serving of patrons, how his blonde hair must have lost its silkiness while cooking in the kitchen and the dark spots under his deep-blue eyes that turn him into a man of older age than herself. “You shouldn’t give yourself such a hard time, Sanji. You have a lot of work every day—and an old man to look after.”

The junior chef of the Baratie closes his eyes and smiles as wide as the nine-year-old boy on the photographs Robin should have never been allowed to see. Sometimes it causes her to act motherly—as much as she knows how a mother worries. She doesn’t know about Sanji’s mother and too little does she remember her own.

“You’re too kind as usual,” Sanji compliments her _as usual_ and only weakly twitches when a plate drops to the ground outside the shop. His expression fades into a desperate demand for help, again Robin finds the overworked young man at her desk in search of shelter from the stress.

“I wouldn’t mind the chef’s company while I’m eating,” she saves him and phrases her request precisely so Sanji wouldn’t have to lie about his whereabouts afterwards.

“Thank you, my lady.” He bows slightly before pulling a chair over and settling at the desk across from her. “Ah—what was Nojiko here for anyway? She only supplies us and Makino’s on Monday’s.”

“She was out on delivery in town and needed to propose a job to me,” Robin explains while serving them both sparkling water. 

Sanji’s eyes light up instantly, “Really? What for? Oh, wait—it’s their mother’s birthday soon.” For a second his face darkens at the idea of Nojiko and her younger sister standing by their mother’s grave. “That’s great for you. I bet they’re excited over it, your bouquets are always so beautiful.”

“You’re too kind,” Robin copies his words and is rewarded by a chuckle. “She seemed very excited. Their harvest was good so they were able to save up some money.”

“That’s good news. The grijsaard and I were worried about the plantage after the stores decided to buy from the industry.” 

Robin chuckles at the Dutch word that sneaked into Sanji’s speech—she has long become used to it but would never not feel overwhelmed that he refrains from hiding his true origin from her. “It’s a real shame. I’ve already heard so many justified complaints from Makino. So much is lost due to the lowering prices and the poverty spreading.”

“No one seems to care about quality anymore,” Sanji grumbles and nods to her in agreement, “The grijsaard keeps saying that we will even feed the poor with our food. But how when they don’t even bother?” 

“Mmh,” Robin hums and swallows a bite of tortellini in melted sage butter, “Maybe it’s time for Meadow Lane to step out and present itself to the world.” She doesn’t care about more popularity or the highest level recognition, but she cares about Sanji and his father and the other unique residents of Meadow Lane. If having to present herself publicly to save her current home, she wouldn’t hesitate too long. 

“I guess you’re right,” Sanji agrees with her again and their comfortable conversation rolls into a discussion over possible steps.

All the while being unaware of the unusual commotion Meadow Lane experiences on another beautiful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to give Zeff some last name and have Sanji carry the same to make things easier for _them_. Little more insight on their true reasons for leaving Europe will follow, but introducing Franky should be more important for now ;)  
>  And— _grijsaard_ isn't really Flemish, it's Dutch. I couldn't find any real Flemish local "words" for geezer so Dutch has to work out. I just thought it seemed more authentic than to have him use English words when he grew up and attached to Zeff outside the US. Also—they used to live close to the French border in Belgium, that's how I would like to justify their "french-ness". But I'll get to that sooner or later. Concerns, feedback, complaints (please with logical explanations as I'm not very smart _lol_ ) are always welcome!


	4. quatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the massive delay! D:

## 4

There’s dust all over the fallow grounds of Meadow Lane. Dust, and weeds spreading their roots to gain more space across the untended terrain. Sporting a wild look, a few people say, to talk down the massive disappointment the old storage depot now is. Indescribably ugly, a pain to everyone’s eyes, that is what many people say. No one pays it much attention however they talk and rant about it, they mention it to the bartenders in a threatening tone—get rid of this sight if you want us to come back!—but there is little Meadow Laners could do. 

And so the blanket of dust has to be lifted by an outsider. An intruder, you could say. To whom the fallow grounds have been sold along with the old storage depot. No one has been informed, no one knew until the new owner shows up in Meadow Lane with the strangest air and attitude all citizens have ever seen. 

At lunch time, while the pavements of the Baratie are bursting from hungry patrons, while the florist herself dines behind her shop’s front, a single motorbike drives into Meadow Lane. It’s lead by a man, a tall man with a broad built and a look as wild as the fallow grounds themselves. The guests of Meadow Lane halt in their actions as he enters the old storage depot’s driveway with his bike and disappears behind the many wild plants lining up in front of the old building. What remains of him is the noise of his motorbike, how it rattled the cups and wine glasses and windows of the shops, how it rang provokingly in the bystanders’ ears.

His existence became quickly a mystery until the next morning, when his appearance has been spotted again.

Safely shielded from the changed world outside, the florist sits behind her desk and binds flowers into little bouquets to see if her ideas work out. It’s a calm morning, peaceful and creative, with just her only patron as company sitting behind the glass wall in front of her shop. She loves these mornings when she loses track of time and her reality morphs into the imaginary world she thinks up for her bouquets. There is no time, no clock, no alarm to interrupt her because the day knows how to keep her schedule.

When her patron brings back his empty cup of coffee, she knows it’s a quarter to 12. 

“Pardon to disturb you with your work, young lady,” he says politely but with a glint of _playful_ mockery in his eyes as he places his cup on her desk, “I was wondering who moved into the old storage depot. Do you know?”

Robin blinks at him in confusion, “No one. The owner has had trouble selling it for quite some while, as far as I know.”

“That’s weird,” he frowns and thoughtfully brushes over his silvery beard, “I heard some at Makino’s rant about the new owner very passionately.” 

What seems to be going on in her own neighbourhood without her notice makes Robin feel irritated. Left out. Even more isolated. She always knows when something changes around her, most of the times even before it would happen—how come she hasn’t notice that someone moved into the empty lot opposite of her’s?

“I didn’t mean to stir up feelings, Miss Nico,” her old patron apologises with a hint of concern.

“Oh—it’s fine, Mr. Silvers, I just… didn’t know. It would’ve been nice to be informed about it by the landlord,” Robin forces out with the best of smiles. 

“Right, you all share the same one… Well, the angry lot at Makino’s said it’s the landlord’s brother who got it,” Mr. Silvers continues, “He apparently showed up on a motorbike during lunch yesterday—that really messed with the Baratie’s patrons.” An amused grin appears on his features that he doesn’t bother to hide.

At lunch? When Sanji was with her? How come they both haven’t noticed? “I really don’t know much about it, I’m sorry.” 

“Then maybe you should go over and ask—he’s out there ripping out weeds. I gotta leave, see you tomorrow,” Mr. Silvers chuckles and leaves some coins and bills on the desk before exiting the shop.

Her curiosity ignited, Robin follows him to the shop‘s front door and takes a glance through the window. Indeed—proof of Mr. Silvers’ words is evident—there is someone moving into the old storage depot. Some of the plants growing on the ground that only she enjoys to tame at times are missing, creating a large empty driveway. All of those flowers that so many people stigmatise by calling them weeds while they carry the most delicate petal heads. Their importance for nature is way past most people’s imagination. And obviously her new neighbour knows no better either.

It is hard to look away. Something draws her attention to the actions of the man across the street who is ripping out of the ground what she sells at her shop for a living. For making people happy. For the plants that are supposed to be treated with care. And not torn from their roots. 

Without thinking it through, the dedicated florist leaves her shop and takes great and quick steps towards the old storage depot’s driveway—to that ignorant _bull_ mistreating her beloved plants. She doesn’t remember the last time she has felt this kind of intense feeling, this urge to protect something she cares more about than she admits to show. However the closer she reaches the stranger, the more her agitation mixes with other feelings, with the prospect of an intruder invading her space. There is a little bit of nervousness making its way towards her determination but she tries to stay sturdy, she tries to stand her ground. This man isn’t only an unwelcome outsider for her plants but for all of Meadow Lane and he has to know. 

Silently, barely audible, she approaches the very tall and broad built man with extravagant hair who is hunched over a great patch of daisies, poppies and fern. His hands are about to reach for the poppies when he halts and seems to notice something off. Robin is aware of the chance she has to safe those poppies but doesn’t know what to say or how to introduce herself _properly_. She doesn’t want to give the impression of hospitality, of acceptance or even tolerance—she wants him to know that he’s unwanted.

Her eyes wander over the area, the massive plant world nature has created. In between the ivy and the fern that are climbing up the fence in front of the strange man, she notices a type of Convolvulus—and also her perfect greeting words. 

“Bindweeds are an enemy to any gardener. They strangle and smother every plant in their hold.” Silence keeps on lasting for another moment after her words, she smiles triumphantly behind her expressionless mask. 

Apparently unfazed by her sudden presence, the unknown man turns towards her in his current position and eyes her up, obviously not as irritated by her words than she has intended to make him feel. 

“You should get rid of them properly if you want your grounds clean,” she adds, now with a posture of the highest self-confidence and self-defense she can create. 

It makes him rise up, fully stand straight in his entire huge and unfamiliar built, and throwing a great shadow over Robin in the process. He doesn’t seem angered, his facial expressions only wear a little bit of annoyance but she can’t place it precisely. Neither his only word that is carried by a rough and manly voice under a piercing gaze. 

“Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really sorry for the delay of this update! I'm already halfway through the next chapter and hope to post it two weeks from now. It's been so exhaustingly humid lately with lots of thunderstorms and that's a creativity killer for me. But I hope you enjoyed the interaction in this chapter and uhm—not to spoiler—stay tuned for more in the next chapter!
> 
> PS: Yes, there's old man Rayleigh in there again. I love to use him for such purposes :'D On that note—to anyone who read (and liked) _Unexpected Discovery_ —I'm currently reworking the story (layout) to prepare for resumption of the story!


	5. quinze

## 5

“You’re a neighbour?” he asks right after as if it was a simple chat.

Robin is caught off-guard momentarily—after all, this isn’t what she has intended to achieve, she has only ever wanted to scare him off a little—but finds her voice and mind soon again. “Yes, I am.”

“Cool. I’m Franky,” he introduces himself and offers his prank-like hand that Robin refuses to take—not that it seems to bother him at all. “Thanks for the info. I’ve seen these binding things all over the grounds and some of ‘em are tough to rip out. They’re surprisingly strong fellas.”

Still caught but now between awe, amusement and annoyance, Robin finds his way of phrasing interesting. Adult, somewhat intellectual but spoiled with slang. What a _strange_ man. “They must be, they nurture themselves off other plants and kill them in the process.”

“So would it matter if I just got rid of them all?” The man called Franky frowns, by now aware of Robin’s mood. 

“No! ...well, they’re pretty persistent. Once they’re rooted inside a flowerbed, it’s hard to remove them. You ought to remove their roots as well and… there’re chemicals you could use but I recommend you don’t.” Her mission is to safe those wildflowers she occasionally picks for bouquets, not to help him grading the fallow grounds.

His eyes hold her tightly in a judging gaze, whether she was trustworthy or not. “You sound like an expert.”

“I am!” Robin blurts out, her reactions are getting out of control. _But why?_ “I… I run the florist shop across the street.”

“I see…” the man nods before his face has even caught onto the meaning behind the new information. “Oh, sorry—those weren’t your flowers by any chance then?” 

_What?_ For a moment, Robin is unsure if his words of consideration were just the humming of a breeze she has misheard—how could _he_ be so sensitive anyway? Was it possible? Maybe she misjudged him by his looks and by the sheer impression of an intruder infiltrating Meadow Lane with ill thoughts? 

“No, they’re not. They’re wildflowers, they don’t belong to anyone.” Her answer is short and her voice firm, “But these grounds are yours now.”

Franky nods—very obviously understanding her implied rudeness—and offers a weak smile, “I will take care of it. Thanks for your help and stopping by.” And ends the conversation by turning his back on her again to disappear inside the old storage depot.

Behind he leaves a very confused florist who can’t label the feelings going through every cell of her body. Is it irritation? Is it surprise? Is it annoyance? Is it even a little pride? That finally her expertise was gifted with the respect she has always secretly longed for? Is it even happiness resulting from it? She doesn’t know, she simply can’t categorise what that man has done nor who he is. 

He seems as rude and rough as he seems polite and educated, as much as he tends to focus on his own tasks, he obviously has the sensitivity to consider other people’s needs. If she confirmed those flowers to be her own, would he have let them be? 

What is she supposed to feel about him? 

“He didn’t molest you, did he?” the very familiar voice of the Baratie’s junior chef asks, each word faintly muffled by a cigarette that resides in the corner of his mouth. It’s a rude and atypical attitude of him to speak with the cigarette still between his lips but it’s a habit in times of tension.

Masking her true expression with a smile, Robin turns towards Sanji and shakes her head, “I molested him, actually.”

A darker shaded frown shapes Sanji’s features—the answer he received doesn’t calm his nerves. “Some of our patrons were very annoyed by his arrival yesterday. Some said he insulted them out of the blue,” he grunts with a glare directed at the old storage depot’s front door, “He’s bad for our business. Makino’s customers were equally complaining about him.”

With what Robin has only just experienced herself, the considering kindness the stranger named Franky approached her with—despite her very obvious _unkindness_ —she can’t quite believe everyone’s complaints. If at all, he didn’t seem to be the type to step out to other people for no proper reason, in fact, he seemed to be the lonesome kind. Almost like herself. 

“You should stay away from him, I think,” Sanji adds in a softer, caring voice. Always wanting the best for her, Robin knows, and still she dreads it each time he expresses his concerns.

“ _I_ think I can take care of myself,” she smiles firmly and sets to return to her shop, “And if things get out of hand, I know who to call.” 

 

Whenever the sun leaves the sky and travels over the horizon to spend its warm rays to the other side of the globe, most Meadow Laners follow its call and retreat to their homes. At night it is quiet in the street, not even the last patrons of the Baratie dining and drinking past sunset are a nuisance to the calm nights of Meadow Lane. A trait the street and its citizens are known for, once a reason for outsiders to move into the apartments and townhouses along the street—so busting with life, so vivid at daytimes but so quiet and peaceful at night. And yet, this magical setting doesn’t seem to spark interests anymore nowadays, hence most homes stay unattended every night. 

Among the few of Meadow Lane who return to their homes each and every night—these loyal habitants—is Robin the florist, climbing up the stairs towards her apartment that sits atop her shop. Each step higher to her hideout she drops more and more of her diurnal armour until she reaches the threshold of her door and is mentally bare. At home, she can be free, at home, she can be every emotion she wants or has to feel. Here, within these walls that only she ever exists in, nobody can see what she is hiding from sight. 

While others prepare for sleep, Robin prepares for an intensive reading session with teas and biscuits Sanji usually brings her before she closes her shop. Work never tires her out enough for her to fall asleep easily, so she always reads and reads and reads until her eyelids can no longer hold her eyes open. Inside her shelves she has stocked up on books that will last for another year—most of them she has collected over the years from other Meadow Laners, book fairs and whenever the library updates their assortment. It’s her other passion beside flowers, and while she keeps on calling it ‘a literature passion’ as so many other Meadow Laners do, only she knows that it’s not simply reading she does but research. 

Once the preparations are done—teapot, cup and biscuits along with a pile of unread books positioned on the antique dumbwaiter by the large arch window—Robin settles into the old armchair with view on the nightly sky over Meadow Lane. By now she has changed into more comfortable clothes, an outfit she wouldn’t show to anyone but her mirror self. 

With just one small light source for reading, the room seems almost dark if one looked from outside—and yet, Robin is in the best position to watch outside and over Meadow Lane. So she does in between sips of tea and tales, allowing her gaze to wander over her reality behind the walls of her apartment for a break from concentration. It helps to sort out what has entered her mind, to let sink in what has revealed itself to her through the words.

But tonight, her mind is unable to grant entrance, and when her eyes scan the nightly sky, her attention gets drawn to a light from across the street like a moth to a lamp. Right where only hours ago Robin encountered her new neighbour tearing poppies from their roots, he again stands there in bright spotlight and seems to continue on his task. Somewhat eager to watch him but this time from afar, Robin rises up from her seat and leans against the window’s frame to have a better look. 

How persistent and most of all dedicated, to keep on working after sunset. Shovelling and ripping out plants don’t make much noise, at least Robin can’t hear anything and so she hopes no one in Meadow Lane does either. They would add it to his account of being the rude, unwelcome intruder as they are already looking for reasons to dislike him—no matter what is truth and what is lie. For some reason, Robin can’t relate to their instant denial of him, has she already met his kindness. And despite her own impoliteness, he remained friendly throughout the entire encounter. 

Usually it’s her to distrust, doubt and dislike anyone who tries to join her environment out of the blue, especially in Meadow Lane where she is the least hospitable, the least unwelcoming person to strangers. And now, it’s her to feel different about the latest stranger of Meadow Lane. 

Then, why does everyone else hate on him—without ever talking to him? What could possibly be the mystery behind this man that his bad reputation seemed deeply rooted inside Meadow Laners’ and their guests’ minds—without his assistance?

Who is he, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier update this time, next one will be around the 6th of July. More interactions coming ahead!


	6. six

## 6

A new day brings new chances, new encounters, new successes but also new failures. It’s a balance Nature keeps between positivity and negativity and everyone in Meadow Lane knows to sing by its compositions of life. Such a magical place, almost picture book worthy, and still it has its flaws that keeps Meadow Lane deeply connected to reality. 

None of it seems to bother in any way when Robin walks down the stairs onto the pavement. With spirits high to continue on her memento arrangement for Nojiko, she starts her daily morning routine to open up her shop. At first, she takes the broom from the cabinet at the bottom of the stairs to her apartment, and brushes off the dust from yesterday. A new day, a clean pavement, may no traces of the past dirty the chances of today.

From afar she watches other Meadow Laners sweeping their shopfronts clean, she occasionally greets passersby on their morning stroll and waves over to Makino who sets up the signs for the daily offers in front of her delicatessen shop. Robin herself has never had but an occasional orange juice—made from the most delicious oranges from Nojiko—at Makino’s shop, and maybe once or twice bought high-quality chocolate whenever the urge was too intense to ignore. Due to Sanji gifting her with meals twice a day, there’s almost no need for Robin to buy ingredients from Makino’s shop—still, she knows that anything sold in the single-mother’s shop is of the highest quality. But products of that kind have a high price, hence the frequency of customers is growing lower.

As Robin is making her way closer to the entrance door of her shop, she also sweeps closer to the spot she only yesterday encountered the new neighbour. She halts right there, curious how far he must have gotten during the night, after she has decided for slumber. The surprise is great indeed when Robin’s gaze hovers over a cleaned driveway, graded to an even level—so all the plants’ roots are gone, too—and plastered in concrete that is now drying under the blazing sun. How fast could one fix up an unattended, fallow ground? she wonders in disbelief. Maybe determination does move mountains. 

Mesmerised by the fast change to the lot across from her’s, Robin doesn’t notice the initiator of it standing on the pavement measuring its width. _He_ does, though, and straightens up to greet her with the wave of his prank-like hand and a warm but cautious smile on his features. Such a kind and pure gesture and yet—once Robin has gathered enough posture—ignores the best she can. Normally, she wasn’t this rude but she still has to find out more about this Franky and while his true identity is still a mystery to her, she doesn’t want to create false interpretations of her reactions. Well, not reacting at all is a reaction as well but she still prefers to only tolerate his presence as little as possible. 

How irrational her ignorance towards his greetings really is—Robin is aware, somehow, but she would rather not get to the bottom of _this_ mystery. 

And building up a wall between them would be easier if he reacted to her rudeness appropriately instead of simply accepting it. She finds her jaw dropping slightly when he only smiles at her widely and gives her a thumbs up before retreating to the building of the storage depot. Leaving her on the opposite side of the street completely lost in an emotional turmoil—who on Earth is he and why is he able to mess with her so easily?

Before anyone could read her feelings off her face, Robin finishes up the process of sweeping the pavement and hurries to hide behind the glassy facade of her shop. She only wants to indulge in work, her safety plane of creativity, and be disconnected from reality as much as the circumstances of the arrangement allowed—but a little white piece of paper stuck to the shop’s front door marks an obstacle in her way. Curious as to who could have minded to leave a message for her, Robin picks it from the door’s window and quickly reads through the few lines in delicate handwriting:

_Dear floral neighbour,_  
_how about a cup of tea at lunch at my shop? I brought some new biscuits along and some stories to tell,_  
_yours sincerely,_  
_Brook_

Such short note but the invitation unfolds a smile on Robin’s features that overshadows all former feelings. What a surprising twist of events, she thinks, although thinking harder she remembers that it isn’t as surprising at all. Her neighbour Brook—owner of the old traditional music shop two buildings down the street—informed her about the length of his absence from Meadow Lane on the very day he set out on his journey. As much as she hates it whenever he is travelling the world, she knows how important his work as musician and tutor is, especially in regions with limited education. All the more she can’t wait to listen to his adventures and experiences, from worlds she has never been to and worlds she has been but will never be able to return to. 

The morning goes on as any other morning would and will. Flower pots are lined up in front of the shop, a coffee is served to the only patron while Robin is sitting behind her desk, arranging and decorating the flower wreath for Nami and Nojiko. It’s as empty and quiet as it always has been and most likely always will be, this constancy being a trait but also a curse for her. At least—she likes to think—there’s no hope to be crushed for she has stopped wishing for better times a long time ago. The little success she has with her shop is enough to get by—if only with the help from the neighbourhood—but she knows worse times and she knows nightmares and her current life is paradise compared to the hell she has come from.

By the usual time, Mr. Silvers enters the shop to return his cup and pay his treat. His behaviour is predictable to Robin and yet, she isn’t quite surprised when he for the first time in ever settles into an empty chair across her desk and announces after a pause, “I’ve never watched you work—what is it you’re working at?” 

“A memento arrangement. I rarely do any of them however I enjoy them the most,” Robin admits nearly joyfully, taken aback by the unusual confrontation. No one has ever talked to her about her work, acknowledged her expertise in such a specific way but for the typical compliments. And then, the new neighbour has done exactly that.

“I’d expect that,” Mr. Silvers smirks, “It definitely looks better than those you can buy on Main Street and on the markets. I might request one, too, once you’re free.”

Robin nearly dropped her scissor, but she knows to keep her posture. “I am almost done with this one, I can start tomorrow. Is there an occasion?”

“No, just that I kept avoiding tending to the grave for a while,” Mr. Silvers smiles with a hint of guilt glistening in the corner of one of his eyes, “I’d like some more colours, something joyful and optimistic.”

“Do you have anything specific in mind?” Quickly, Robin puts her current commission aside to grab her notepad and write down what her next job is supposed to look like. 

He laughed, “I don’t have a clue about flowers, Miss Nico, that’s your job. But something that’s durable, withstands any weather and resembles a deep connection. That’s all.” With a faltering smile, he arises from the chair and turns to leave, “Whatever you end up doing, it will be suitable.”

As the florist watches her only patron leave through the door, she can’t help but wonder whose grave she’s going to decorate. 

 

In front of the shop the tables and seats are in use by plenty of hungry guests, it’s another lunch break in Meadow Lane and the Baratie is busy, feeding anyone who is demanding food. Only few look up in surprise when a young woman with long raven hair exits the shop behind the flower pots, as barely any of them notice the florist shop’s existence. And so the raven-haired woman rushes through the crowd and flower pots, escaping their curious and confused looks that seem to demand explanations of her. 

Once her foot aligns with the music shop’s front, the door is opened for her and she hurries into the darker, quieter inside of the building. Her nerves are running wild, she’s not used to crowded places anymore, let alone being noticed by so many strangers. During meal times Robin usually avoids leaving her shop due to all of the Baratie’s patrons dining on her pavement, many of them considering her shop to be empty or the Baratie’s storage. Once and twice it has happened that people seemed so surprised by her sheer presence as she left the shop that they literally halted her in her tracks to ask too many questions. While those encounters happened in the first few months after Robin’s move to the States—a time during which she was very cautious about everyone and everything around her—she still hasn’t been able to shake off the fear and ill thoughts they have produced within her. 

Of what high importance someone is to her who opens up a hideout for her with the most understanding smile and no demands for answers—Robin could possibly only explain with flowers. That she should do again, the certain someone shall be reminded of her gratitude again now that he is back from his journeys. And so she settles for a wide smile for now as soon as her vision has grown accustomed to the dim-lit interior, and she finds that very person standing an arm-length ahead of her. She would hug if they haven’t once wordlessly decided against it. Did it matter, she wonders, their relationship is clear and defined, set boundaries and mutual interpretations. For him, she must be an open book that he only ever reads when it is necessary. 

“I should’ve invited you over to a different time. Pardon me, I misjudged the Baratie’s lunch hours,” the older, large grown man apologises instantly as he leads the way through the shop to the backside of the building. 

Robin shakes her head out of habit, aware that her companion can’t see it. “It’s fine. I planned to come over earlier but I was too lost in work.”

“That’s actually good news.” 

They walk out onto the small patio of the tiny backyard of the house, decorated with a table for three and many items brought home from foreign cultures. There are few plants, only those able to live on without someone tending to them but the greenery only added up to the cosiness of the little garden. However small it is, it can handle all the negativity, all the pain and all the stress you tag along and turn it into contentment and calmness. So coming here is a kind of vacation for Robin, for neither can she afford a trip nor can she leave. Too much depended on her presence in this very town and therefore she is happy to have a place away from home that she can relax in and is most of all welcomed at. 

Once sat at the small table with teas and biscuits, Robin takes a moment to look for any visual changes to her neighbour. His wild seemingly untamed black mane is as unruly as before, his features the same cheerful ones as they have ever been on his long-shaped face, no changes in his build or weight either—as far as Robin can tell—but one thing is very obvious: “You gained some tan, Brook.” 

The music tutor laughs wholeheartedly, “There’s no way you don’t when you’re staying under the Mexican sun!”

“So your stay was a success?” What an useless question, Robin knows better than anyone what a great teacher Brook is. But she enjoys watching him talk about it.

“Yes, very much! They asked me to come back next year for a summer camp. Some kids were very fond of learning every instrument—it was quite some fun! You wouldn’t believe how eager to learn they are, so curious and open for new theories,” Brook tells in awe, obviously having left a piece of his soul behind. “But enough of me, you know about my work—what is this job that made you come late to our tea time?”

“Oh—Nojiko commissioned me. She and her sister want an arrangement for their mother’s grave,” Robin smiles and takes a sip from her cup of Earl Grey, “And today Mr. Silvers asked for one as well.”

Brook whistles in astonishment, “He only ever bought your random bouquets, do I recall that correctly? How come he has changed his mind after all this time?”

“I’m not sure. When he came inside to pay for his coffee, I was working on Nojiko’s arrangement and he just sat there for a while and watched me work. And then he simply proposed his request.” Allowing the scene to replay in her head creates a warm but unfamiliar feeling in Robin’s chest. When only watching her work has changed his mind to requesting more than a simple bouquet, did her work alone impress him this much? 

Apparently aware of her track of thoughts, Brook hums, “You impressed him.” 

“Well, he saw my works before, I don’t think–”

“Watching the artist actually work instead of seeing the finished product makes a huge difference for a customer,” Brook interrupts her, then sips on his rose tea, “If I wouldn’t have demonstrated my guitars and my skills to people directly, I would have never sold but a pick. They don’t see _you_ in your finished bouquets, they see nothing but another collection of flowers they only bought at the gas station the other day. They will never learn the value of any of your works if you don’t show them how much worth you put into each one.”

Perplex Robin stares at her companion for a moment before her feelings force her gaze to cast lower. Her reflection barely fits into the tea cup, neither would _herself_ into the idea Brook suggested. To present her work process publicly, to show off her talents and herself, how should she do something so atypical of her character? Of her new character, the one she has been creating and shaping ever since she has found cover under a new life in a new environment. What if someone would recognise her? What if instead of helping her move on with her new self into a new future, her past would sweep her over again? She would drown for good this time, she wouldn’t be able to put up another fight not after all this time of personal peace. Would anyone save her?

“You might worry too much,” Brook says calmly, reading his favourite neighbour’s expressions thoroughly, “But I can see where your concerns come from. I am not able to exorcise your demons nor can I chase away whatever haunts your mind. All I can try is to offer a reasonable and realistic perspective—yet, I see how my idea is a bit risky. Then I suggest you make sure Nojiko and Mr. Silvers recommend you to others.”

There it is again, the old poet who surpasses anything Robin has ever expected from a man like him. Upon their first encounter about three years ago, Robin would’ve never believed to grow close to someone who randomly replies in poems or lyrics in conversations, it sounds annoying only thinking about it. But his way of phrasing his thoughts, how much experience and wisdom there is in almost every word—she still doesn’t regret falling for these characteristics if only in a friendship kind of love. And maybe his knowledge about her past only plays a role to her but the resulting trust is a key to their relationship for both. 

A faint blush tinges Robin’s cheeks and she drinks from her tea until she regains control over it. “I appreciate your support—you know that. But I… I don’t think I’m ready yet to take that step. Things will work out just fine the way they are right now. What I have now is all I need.”

Brook nods with worry wrinkling his forehead, “I wish for you that will last forever.”

 

When the Sun is lowering its glow on Meadow Lane, it is time to call it a day. As Night is flowing through the street on a warm breeze, residents return to their homes and patrons call for the bill at the only bistro. It is getting calmer, colder and emptier within the street and inside the shops—except for that one florist shop. Inside the owner is preparing to delay her work until morning, her concentration and focus beginning to fade from her mind. It’s way past her usual time to close the shop but she had to catch up to the lost hours she spent at her neighbour’s, and so she ends up doing hours. 

The light from the shop casts proof onto the pavement of the activities inside, and so lures in whoever has a business to settle. In this very case it is the neighbour from across the street, approaching the florist’s shop and as gently as he can knocks on the door before opening it. He _knows_ manners and he knows how to use them—he only needs a reason for it. And so he starts his query with an apology—to barge in at this late hour—and tries to maintain the politeness he is somehow capable of for the lady behind the desk, as much as he can when her eyes take in his appearance with curiosity. 

“I’ve got something I need to show ya,” he manages to say, is he feeling uneasy around her? Is he nervous? He cannot tell his feelings apart. “There’s… there’s this flower my apprentice found, you might want to take a look before I remove it?”

From an almost stern expression to a sparkle in her clear brown eyes once the word flower is spoken, Franky notices all of the changes to her remarkable face. What of her kept on tearing his attention from him, he simply can’t figure out. All he knows is that this beautiful lady with the knack for flowers and the most awful things to say to a new neighbour is so different from all the other women he has ever met in his life. Very alike those roses he recently removed from the fallow grounds—all so thorny but delicate all the same. 

“I would like to,” she replies, blindly puts away her commission and the supplies and arises from her chair. Dressed in an average outfit of plain dark colours and only simple jeans with a long-sleeved shirt, she shines with elegance nonetheless. 

With her on his heels, Franky leads the way outside, waits for her to lock the shop and crosses the street over to his lot. There’s still some light from the leaving Sun but it’s already quiet in Meadow Lane and the silence walking between them is anything but welcoming. But how to change this uncomfortable walk? He doesn’t like whatever women her age like, he isn’t interested in flowers, let alone the fact that he barely knows anything about her—not even… “What’s your name, by the way? We’re neighbours now, I should know to whom I’m recommending new customers to, y’know…”

He feels a stabbing pain in his neck—her analysing, examining look spearing through his back as he walks ahead of her—but a moment later, he receives an answer that will never leave his memory. 

“Robin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! With a long chapter and two more chapters awaiting! We're close to a plot twist, so I'll make sure not to have you waiting for too long. ;3 
> 
> If you like my writing you can support me with a coffee on ko-fi! http://ko-fi.com/shindahotaru


	7. sept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but the next one is already done!

## 7

Soon enough life falls back into its usual rhythm that is composed by Meadow Lane’s natural tune. Any expected and feared changes to the neighbourhood by the newcomer never found their way into reality. Meadow Lane and its residents lived on the way they have had before the commotion, only with one more neighbour and a tended to not-so-fallow-and-old-anymore storage depot. 

Muted by the very same tune is Robin, the florist. Although having commissions for a change, she finishes them before time and is gifted with none in return. Her daily schedule falls back as well, shaped by the very same activities and chores she knows by heart. Days begin with sweeping the pavement, a cup of coffee for her only patron, hours of mindlessly arranging flowers, tea time after Lunch, and another meaningless bouquet before the day comes to an end.

On some days, Robin wishes that the new neighbour’s arrival would have caused trouble. That all rumours and irritated patrons of the Baratie would stand up and fight for him to leave—although Robin doesn’t want him to. Despite everything and the nothing that has changed, she enjoys the little changes he has brought into her daily life. And no part of her wants to miss them. 

It’s the waved greeting she sees every morning, when she prepares the pavement in front of her shop. No matter how far or how close he is from her—whenever their eyes meet, he smiles and calls out a “good morning!” to her, and only for a short while Robin was able to ignore it completely. Currently, she nods back at him with a small smile.

The day his mail was delivered to her shop for the person in charge hasn’t been informed about the new owner of the storage depot. Of course, Robin used the chance to look around the tended to grounds, met the apprentice—a shy but nice young man—and even received a small tour around the renovated building by Franky himself. Having been to the old storage depot before several times—ignoring all warning signs—Robin found herself impressed with the makeover the worn down building had received. Enough space to repair several cars at once and for three times as many employees but there were only Franky and his apprentice. It was quite the contrast to her shop, with all the lack of flowers and colours, all the tools and supplies and the metal everywhere—and the obviously very adult posters the apprentice tried to hide from Robin’s view all at once—but the difference felt and still feels somewhat energising. Despite being dirtier and more industrial than any other shop in Meadow Lane, it still owns the very same fundamental character—handmade, honest work. 

And the day Robin’s flowers from a new farmer were brought to Franky’s lot. They shared an embarrassing moment of laughing about the weirdness of the incident before Franky carried all of the boxes into Robin’s storage and even offered to build her an additional one on his lot, if she would ever run out of space.

During the last few days the atmosphere between them has grown lighter, also a little warmer and Robin found herself sweeping the pavement extra slowly to wait for Franky’s greetings. By now she smiles at him, still a very small one and no wave of her hand, but she’s aware of the change herself and his acknowledgement of it. He has brought a fresh wind into her life without causing any trouble, without blowing up the gravel of her past. 

Although nothing has really changed for her shop, Robin felt revived and inspired by the new additions to her personal life. Work at the shop was still the very same, never becoming dull but so close to, no one outside of Meadow Lane knew about her existence nor her flowers but it was this constancy that strengthened her to keep on going. If nothing changed at all, it wouldn’t change for the worse either.

Days went on and on until the day Mr. Silvers didn’t come for his coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I'm still busy but also still bursting with ideas for this story and all of my other stories. Thanks for staying with me so far <3  
> And if you can spare more than a like or a comment (you're awesome!) you can buy me a coffee on http://ko-fi.com/shindahotaru THANK YOU!


	8. huit

## 8

The next day, there’s no trace of Mr. Silvers again. 

Instead, a young man enters the shop carrying the most terrified look in his eyes Robin has ever seen. 

Tousled black hair matching the wide black shirt that doesn’t seem to be his size but suits him just fine, completed by as darkly coloured trousers and sneakers—he stands in the centre of the shop without a clue. There are words obviously pressing against the inner sides of his lips but he cannot get a hold of them enough to release them. What a sad sight to behold, he seems entirely defeated by the emotions rushing through him. Some day in the past there used to be a strong mind within his head, a powerful will—that seems obvious with his posture—but something has broken, shattered his character. 

Quickly analysed the indications, Robin tries to open the conversation for him in a soft tone, “I excuse any false interpretations—do you need a memento arrangement?”

Surprised by her reaction, the young adult looks at her and again, tries to express his request. “I… I need–” But once his courage gains the upper-hand, the door of the florist shop opens to a woman his age who claims his lump right arm as if she has never done differently. Rather hesitantly, the young man calms down, releases some of the very visible tension from his limbs and rests against her a little. 

“Hello, Robin!” It’s Nojiko’s little sister, Nami. Now grown up into a beautiful young lady in her very early twenties, Robin would have barely recognised her—if there wasn’t her vibrant orange hair contrasting so brilliantly against the black dress she is wearing. “Long time no see. Thanks again for the wreath, it’s still alive and pretty.”

“I’m glad to hear,” Robin smiles warmly and puts aside her current bouquet-in-progress. “What can I help you with?”

Nami’s grip on the man next to her tightens, if to support him or herself Robin can’t tell. As the atmosphere turns sad and heavy, Robin watches the fine features of the younger woman’s face turn as shattered as the black-haired man’s, tears coil in her eyes that she forces to stay in place, bravely. “Since—since we admire the work you’ve done for us, we would like to ask if you could… do one more? A-and we need bouquets and such for… for the service too…”

The further Robin listens, the more her chest tightens. She’s acquainted to Nami and Nojiko and only has just done a grave arrangement for them, now she has to do one more? How cruelly could the universe treat those two kind and dedicated women, haven’t they paid their does all along, in case there were any at all? 

Worry rings in her voice as she asks, “Has someone close of you died?” Hope is there, that the truth wasn’t as terrible as those two make it show.

“Oh! Nojiko is fine,” Nami immediately replies, “But yes… his brother.” While saying the last words, Nami allows her companion to slide into her arms and she keeps a very comforting, safe embrace around him that indicates the intimacy between them. Robin understands. Them and the connection between each other, and to the deceased. 

“We need like… everything you need for a service and the funeral, I have no idea what that all means,” Nami adds helplessly, “But we figured you do so we could leave this in your hands… if you want.”

Robin smiles warmly, “I do. Don’t worry I’ll help you. I’ll do whatever I can to support you.”

And is rewarded by a smile in return. “Thanks so much. This is really getting over my head but Sanji also offered to help… probably to avoid having to cope himself.” A small sob escapes Nami, causing the man in her arms to release himself from her hold. He cups her face with his palms gently, brushes the tears off her cheeks and plants a kiss to her forehead. “Damn, Luffy, stop… you know it makes me cry harder.” 

Apparently ignited by the overwhelming sadness of his girlfriend, the young man named Luffy turns to Robin and finally speaks in a voice rough from emotional exhaustion. “We pay whatever you want. Thank you for helping us.” 

 

Sometimes, life takes unexpected turns in Meadow Lane. It usually follows the stream of time in its very own pace and never changes direction. And still, it happens that life finds hidden passages, detours and corners within this little universe that guides it farther away from Meadow Lane’s flow. Fate has always had an eye on all the residents and what their lives shall turn out to be. 

Things, relationships change, and more times than we want, it’s death that decides our courses, like a bump in the road. 

Robin can’t shake off these images in her head as the young man sits across from her so forlorn, anywhere between abandoned and merely waiting. Although his girlfriend is only next door, he seems to have no strong connection to her physical presence anymore. The loss of his brother obviously overshadowing his perception. 

Now he is sitting at the other side of Robin’s desk, chair pushed a little between two large plants and tilted towards the door—ready to jump to his feet once his girlfriend appears behind the glass windows. He doesn’t want to be here, but he doesn’t want to be there either. He doesn’t know where he wants to be at all anymore.

So many feelings, sensations and thoughts waver over to the observing Robin, futile resources for her work on the wreath. She doesn’t need to ask, she can guess by her judgement of his behaviour, his expression, his body language what the loss means to him. How grave and heavy it lies on his mind and shoulders, how much it consumes his heart and soul. 

How much will be left of him once he’s through the phases of mourning? Robin wonders. From experience, she knows how severe such loss can be, how small the soul can grow and how shattered the heart can break. But their losses aren’t the same, however she has–

“He likes–… liked orange,” a croak sounds from between the large ferns to Robin’s right. The young man harrumphs and speaks again, his voice a little clearer: “And red and yellow. But mostly orange. We assigned colours to each of us when we were little so there wouldn’t be fights… Sabo grew sick and tired of Ace and me destroying stuff because of that. So he gave us all colours. Red for me, orange for Ace and yellow for himself.”

It’s not very easy to follow his train of thoughts but the memory makes Robin smiles as much as it displays on his own face. His eyes shine with so much life and strength, love and pride, so intensely that Robin doesn’t want to imagine how the absence of their source now must feel. 

“Do you want me to make the bouquets look like little fires?” she blurts out the newly born idea. 

For the first time since Nami has left him here, he turns to look at the florist—with his eyes wide and still shining. “Can you do that?”

She smiles wider, “I can do almost everything.” 

“Yeah, that would be awesome!” he bursts out with such an energy that it seems to lift him up from his seat but the weight of his loss soon after reminds him what all of this is for. “He would’ve liked that… Well, not that we spend so much effort on him… for him… but he would like the fire. He’s been our fire all his life anyway.”

His facial expression falters again, his gaze casted onto the floor to his feet and if Robin allowed her imagination to go wild, she could see emotions fading from his eyes like vapour from a hot water pot. So much is about to vanish from him forever, is there someone at all to stop him from fading away?

And, is this pity she feels? Or is she somehow finding herself in this poor being, that her from all those years ago? 

But is it up to her to save him? Nami only asked her to watch over him while she’s finishing the arrangements for the funeral. Should she interact with him more? Would she have wanted that? Also, what was his name again? 

“Luffy?” The young adult looks up in surprise. Robin smiles warmly to cover how awkward this moment feels to her. There is little in her shop to offer him, to ease his mind off his terrible thoughts, but the longer he would stay here, there more crucial a proper distraction will be. “I don’t mean to throw you out but watching me work must be boring. There’s a great musician down the road, he’s a friend of mine and always knows how to cheer one up. I recommend you pay him a visit.” 

Subtly ashamed by the idea that he might be a nuisance to the florist at work, he shrinks in his seat. “I’m sorry Nami made you watch over me… No one seems to want me to be alone now but… would it be okay for your friend…?”

“Definitely. Tell him I sent you, and I will tell Nami where to find you,” Robin reassures him and is rewarded by an equally soft smile. 

Luffy rises from his chair and moves it back to its original spot, then directs his smile back at Robin, “Thank you for being such a big help. We owe you.”

“Don’t worry too much about it, there’re other things you need to focus on now.” The florist cannot fight the growing admiration for this young man. Despite this awful nightmare his life currently plays, he seems wide awake. So much strength and pride lingers in every word, in every look, in every move, a stance that shows how he wouldn’t let this destroy him no matter how hard it hurt. No wonder Nami has fallen for him, Robin realises.

Just in time of him saying his goodbye, the door opens to the ching-ling of its bell and lets in a very focussed Franky with a stack of papers in one hand, the other leaning too much onto the handle. He enters the shop with his eyes fixed on the papers, closes the door behind him and walks up to Robin as casually as he has been doing for the past weeks. It never fails to amuse Robin how acquainted to each other they have grown already, and how comfortable he seems to feel in her presence by now. 

“Hey, Robin, I gotta run some errands next town tomorrow early mornin’, you need anything from the market?” He keeps his eyes on the sheet he is reading for a moment, then looks up to wait for an answer—and looks in surprise at Luffy. “Oh… you here?” 

“Nami left him here but he was about to leave to see Brook,” Robin explains, surprised herself about the sudden change of mood. Once Franky has stepped over the threshold, Luffy’s posture became tense and his expression grim, almost as if he was readying himself for defense. 

“I see… Good,” Franky thinks aloud, keeping an eye on Luffy as said one moves to the door, “Hey man, I’m sorry ’bout your brother. No one should have to live through that.” 

The young man halts, one foot outside the shop, “Thanks.” And the door falls shut behind him. 

“Was he bothering you or anything?” Franky immediately questions, his thumb pointing towards the front windows. 

Robin frowns, “No, he was very kind. Should anything be wrong with him? You’re unfriendly to many people but it makes sense to me most of the time. It doesn’t in this case.”

With a heavy sigh on his chest, the older man pulls the only free chair over to the desk to sit right across from the florist. The stack of paper placed safely on a spot where no supplies or flowers are lying, he releases the sigh and starts to speak what very clearly doesn’t cross his lips easily. “Well, my gang broke into his club room once and stolen all the cash and some electronics. He and his friends apparently spent all their savings on their club room—some sailing club or whatever. I had no idea about my gang’s plans but he kept making me responsible so at some point I freaked out and said that a douchebag like him deserved it.” Franky stopped for a grimace that contained a smile, guilt and shame, but no true regrets. “And then, after a fight with Luffy—I don’t know what’s happened, not my doing’s—I met Usopp with nothing but a suitcase and a sleeping bag and, long story short, offered him an apprenticeship and a place to sleep. Guess Luffy’s still having a grudge on me for the club room and taking his best friend.

“But Usopp’s got super skills and he’s a great guy, I don’t regret getting some talented boy off the street,” Franky finishes and dares a glance at the silent, listening lady in front of him. 

She doesn’t say a word, her face cleared of any expressions and her body hinting an indifference. Quietly she assembles her scissors at the side of the desk, moves aside scribbles and lists and shifts into another position in her chair. All the while aware of the eyes on her, those eyes behind which thoughts and fears rush at highspeed, colliding and crashing into horrifying assumptions. 

And while he is trying to read her mind, her actions and wondering how to fix this moment,

she is amazed by the honesty he shares with her. 

“I assume he has a great burden to carry around, probably from the first day of his life on. Losing people might be the one thing he cannot handle at all,” Robin speaks calmly and settles all of her attention on the man in front of her. No doubt there is about the importance of her reaction on his past and she doesn’t want to make a mistake here. At some point, he has made his way towards her heart. “And maybe he blames himself more than you but himself he can’t destroy with that anger because he needs to stay strong for others. It’s just a guess, I’ve only just met him. But I know the kinds of people Nami and Sanji allow to be close. Besides, Luffy wears his heart and mind on his sleeve.” 

Franky grins at that, “No, _you_ ’re just awfully super at reading people.” 

“Oh you think,” Robin flashes him a mischievous smile, “Mr. Gang Boss?”

His smile loses colour at her remark, he isn’t sure about its meaning. Even though he trusts her to some extent, he never knows what reaction to expect. Will he ever get to know her completely? Or will she remain an out-of-reach mystery forever? “That’s in the past… I gave it all up after the club room case. My gang acted on their own against my will and behind my back and I figured it was time to be serious about things I really want in life.” 

“You abandoned them?” Robin expects an answer of contrary meaning.

Franky shakes his head to her relief. “No. I took responsibility over the whole case and left them some money of what I’ve saved up. But since Luffy directs his grudge against me, I guessed it was for the better I left. So I took up the offer from my brother to take over the old storage depot. Unaware that Luffy seems to have family here.” Another sigh leaves his lips, “But I hope we can coexist somehow.”

“Well, for now he’s got other things on his mind to take care of,” Robin reassuringly says, fighting the urge to put her hand on Franky’s arm that is rested on the desk right in front of her. “Having lost someone so close creates damages and holes in our spirit and it ravages through our system like a hurricane. He might think differently over this whole incident after the mourning. You’ve already taken a step towards peace with your words of condolence as well.”

A warm smile sneaks onto the engineer’s face, his hand twitches as if to reach for hers but he settles onto words, “Thanks. …You’re the first I can talk to about it who doesn’t throw me out or somethin’…” 

Robin smiles weakly, “We all have a past, don’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy FRobin month y'all!


End file.
